Surgeon of Death
by HartxStarr
Summary: Thoughts and concerns mused by someone who sauntered rather headfirst into the vast and dangerous Underworld. - Post-Apocalypse type AU (or, the years following)


If you were to ever ask Law if he had any intentions of returning to the land of the trees after having sold his soul to the king of Dressrosa, he would have told you "I hadn't thought about it, no."

So, needless to say, it was _him_ who was most surprised when he threw open the doors to Joker's office and physically wrote himself into the upcoming Family round-trip out of Dressrosa without any outstanding duties to attend to literally just because he had a free weekend ahead of him. (That, and he had the utmost not-so-sudden desire to prove that he could, in fact, participate in Family matters instead of spending all his free time reading — his mere attendance counted as participating, right? Not that any jabs thrown his way bothered him in the least, Law does as he pleases.)

His later subsequent trips, however, were less observing mundane transactions and reminiscing years past where he once walked the forest-ridden earth (and Dressrosa was the most _barren_ place he's ever been before — for lack of a better term, Law's thankful for the change in pace) and more so categorizing, filing, and dissecting the odd normalities that took place in the bodies of those who chose to inhabit the free lands ruled not by a singular entity but by the wildlife that surrounds them — but those oddities went without saying, as traditional remedies are really the only reliable solutions they have.

Good medicine couldn't be easily acquired in an unadministered world such as this — not to say that a good remedy couldn't be found within the endless evergreens; Law and Rosinante both had been subjected to a fair share of homemade treatments passed down a generation of another in their time wandering amongst the trees. And while they didn't provide an end-all application, the results were more than satisfactory — for a simple cold or minor ache, that is.

His time alongside pine and fir were spent dodging would-be passerbys though, while Rosinante made it his mission to amass all cure-knowledges under the trees. Law himself never got the chance to see many communities — he was too busy tucked underneath Roci's arm with the rim of his hat pulled low over his eyes in embarrassment to get a good look at the wellbeing of anyone they came across.

So it went without saying that all procedures he preformed — in the back of a truck no less — were spent equal parts in measure the procedure itself and observing the prosperties that befell a body left under the influence of only natural cures for their entire life compared to Law's mere four years before returning back to the world of proper medical and, in most cases, _hygienic_ care.

But he's never sloppy in his work, doesn't make a habit of doing so — even if he's encouraged to with a queue like his. Carelessness and remiss could bleed over to his more professional profession and, if anything, he would not allow _that_ to sully his name in the eyes of—

He didn't know who he was more worried about disappointing. Didn't want to accept his own stubbornness, follow his subconscious down to whose name he knew was engraved into the back-burner of his mind.

So instead, he wondered how it was possible for neither him nor Roci to had ever needed extensive medical treatment to the scale that he had to preform on his less than fortunate souls during their time in the trees. While Law had been brought up under his parents' teachings, he had still been inexperienced in an unfamiliar world, vulnerable to the great outdoors and all of the death and disease hidden within its flora and fauna. And it was curiously hard to stop himself from looking at the hapless patients laying upon his operating table and not imagine a younger him — or worse, _Rosinante_ — broken and defeated by a world he thought he could prevail.

To see a mere stranger he held no attachments to whatsoever though — Law's rather pleased to preform whatever needs to be done to _them._

So, after a rather swift desensitization, he's able to come back to his regular professional self — lack of proper form tossed to the wind — and got to work preforming the so-called miracles he was famed for. And work got easier with the inclusion of Kikoku, faster and more efficient; Law found that it became a staple of his — found that it was another thing he was known for outside of his accomplishments in the more legal field, him being as young as he is.

And he never thought he would find pleasure in cutting into flesh and bone — a rather morbid sensation — but as he wields his nodachi, he found it's something he looks forward to, the reason he keeps coming out.

He was warned about the dangers of his blade, knew that if he gave in to its bloodlust and desire, he could potentially allow it to overcome him, mind and body, his soul, but he was careful. (That is, if _careful_ meant his enjoyment was due to new challenges and less regulations to follow, of course. If there were ever a time to be honest with himself, Law would that say he never gave it much thought; his pleasure couldn't possibly stem from any other factors, superficial or otherwise.)

However, he wasn't new to unconventional operations; though, he doubt the frogs he practiced on during schoolyard hours all those years ago counted as anything but— _fun_ wasn't the word he was specifically looking for, but he supposed it was that, too.

Humans on the other hand were something else. And as he took and cut, managed and exchanged, his patients often feared the blade's edge and its funky plasma (something that Law didn't think was physically possible, but then again, it _is_ a cursed sword, so anything's possible, really) — but that wasn't anything a little anesthesia couldn't fix. Then they were on their way, also having sold their soul to the king of Dressrosa; whether they knew it or not.

(Medical care was a different story altogether, but some people came to the Donquixotes for the most mundane things — a head full of red hair, for example. That particular customer has been coming to them for years apparently, long before Law got wrapped up in Joker's detestable schemes, and he sometimes watched as they waltzed into camp with an entire posse at their heels, crashing the place in all sense of the word. Every time Red-Hair came around, their roots were badly in need of a touch-up, voice a little too loud for Law's liking, their laughter even worse, before heading for the appropriate tent — " _And trim the ends a little too, if you please,"_ he sometimes heard — and they always came out with their hands on their hips, looking rather pleased with themself.

Law would too, if he were a wanderer with a few extra bills to spare — why did they even have cash in the first place, in a world where money oftentimes held no meaning?)

And he doesn't like the term _back-alley doctor_ but he fails to come up with anything more suited for the occupation, legally-viewed medical license be damned. Although, he suspects if his credentials were ever questioned, he'd be slipped under the radar faster than his knowledge of it ever been catechized in the first place.

(Courtesy of Doflamingo, of course. Show the guy some outstanding qualities, and he might just bestow some type of reward or pardon — Law learned that a long time ago.)

But the "Surgeon of Death," as he's heard thrown around was a curious thing because _Doctor Sawbones was more like it_ with the work he found himself taking up lately. Although, if he allowed himself the tiniest shred of honesty, Law figured _he_ was the one who offered himself up to his host's rather darker deals lately; a pawn willingly moved than forcefully played, so he didn't have much of a say on what was perceived of him — the Donquixotes, as relied on as they were, had their fair share of bad rumor mills brewed and bred.

(However, to say that most of the ones that reached his ears were true were, of course, absolutely correct — the ever present upturn of his lips as he diminished his queue, for example.)

So, he tucked the latter epithet back into his bookshelf of dog-eared crime novels and focused on his own reality than those of master detectives and mourning, newly-found widows — as enticing as the idea of losing himself to a well-thumbed, worn down page was.

More than he usually found himself, he was _tired._ It was spite that drove him to a night job on top of his already arduous and taxing— _day job,_ he supposed he should call it now. He slept through every available dull moment he had lately, and he feared Rosinante suspected literally anything else than what he's been up to — the man had quite the active imagination, _especially_ when Law was concerned.

Not that he _didn't_ dread the truth coming out but, well, honesty held more explanation than " _No Roci, I just had to stay later at the hospital today, I'm sorry I didn't let you know beforehand. Yes, I know it seems like I've been gone for several days, our schedules just aren't lining up; this palace is enormous, I've told you before — I know we live in the same wing, but listen. I've been sleeping at work, I'm fine, Roci, please."_

But if operations were his excuse, he wasn't all that wrong.

And, who was he kidding, his trips out of town were putting more of a strain on the relationship he had with probably the most important man in his life than his newfound work ethic was.

Okay, Roci was absolutely the most important person in his life in general but that was besides the point.

The point was that Law worked himself to the bone for no apparent reason at all other than a rancor so petty it surprises even himself. The thought of payment had never even crossed his mind when he was offered the position of ad hoc doctor when the workload became a little too much — he wasn't doing anything worthy of note but standing around, anyway.

To say he was surprised to be compensated for his time was an understatement, considering his check came from his host himself.

His first deposit led him to ponder how he was even getting paid in the first place; where did the money come from? How was money acquired in a world where bills and coins have no meaning, much less exist?

He learned about the transactions taking place around him early on. From what he gathered, the customer always pay up, them or whoever had the misfortune of dragging his patient to his makeshift operating table was, that is (or whatever service they came for). They lent a hand when the Family summoned them or, in some cases, when they were tracked down; providing valuable information or resources; reviewed for later further use. Antiques were deemed as adequate payment, as long as they are tree-values found little and far between in any city. Not that he actually verbally asks any questions about payment not in the form of his later paycheck, he needs to keep up appearances, but Law supposed the chips he's instructed to sometimes plant have their use.

In some cases though, an additional organ was removed as payment, so he guessed his question would be along the lines of what exact organ he had the pleasure of taking was.

Underground goods and services were traded for goods and services of equal or greater value, is basically what he gathered — things had worth, as direct as they may or may not be.

(Red-Hair seemed to be one of the few lucky ones to actually carry cash around, they were able to maneuver themself around the metaphorical net Joker had set up; which, again, was awfully curious — seriously, _who was that guy?)_

 _Surgeon of Death_ though, what a roundabout way he came across that name; trading in his scapels and defibrillator for his rather handy nodachi. There was no other reason for Doflamingo to give _him_ the sword other than with hopes that he'll succumb to all of its gory desires, but Law has never been one to fall so easily; he learned how to tune out the rather surreal insistent chants well enough.

However, it began to strain his focus when it came to practice, and Diamante offhandedly joked about just giving in — because Law's new position held quite the opportunity for him to so — before giving the candid offer of dropping training altogether if it wasn't baring the wanted results; honest use wasn't good enough for Kikoku, it seemed.

It wasn't the first time Law stared right back at his sword and wondered why his host didn't just give the damn thing to Diamante instead, he'd have far better use for it than Law ever did, give it everything it wants — but then he remembered the swordsman's tendency to outright refuse direct contact with Kikoku by hand, especially during their earlier lessons.

Law found himself forgetting that the nodachi was a throwaway gift often, something given to him because no one else would take it — because he was the only one who couldn't refuse. He supposed the sword was deemed valuable due to its awfully compelling curse, which is why it was taken as payment for whatever service it was traded for in the first place. It was hard remembering Kikoku wasn't specifically made for him when it felt so right in his possession, despite the headache it often gave him.

But the aforementioned idea was nonsensical and unrealistic — it was a _joke,_ he kept reminding himself, but the longer he endured the screaming, the louder it became, and the more promising the prospect was.

Law started bringing the sword with him on the trips outside city walls, pass the rock structures and the straight vertical ascends surrounding every World Government owned and controlled landmass. He set it up against a wall of the truck that made up his makeshift operating room and let it spectate.

His views on sanitation aside, he eventually let it touch any eventual mess that was left behind but, well, that didn't do much of anything than make him realize he was taking things way too seriously and he proceeded to hop out of the truck, order someone else to clean up, and dunk the nodachi into a bucket of sanitizer.

(He was scolded by Diamante later about the proper way to care for a soiled sword but Kikoku didn't seem impacted in the least, so Law submerged it a second time for good measure once he was away from annoyingly prying eyes.)

And it was humorous to imagine the titled Surgeon of Death to want to keep his tools so clean but again, Law didn't want to fall into any negligent habits. He had all the doubt in the world that he'll whip out the nodachi during a more conventional operation, but Law didn't want to subject someone to more than just the sight of Kikoku's blade before it plunged into them. A disease or infection, while it was honestly expected during a session with the so-called infamous doctor, is, in Law's experience, a sure sign of deficient work behavior — and Law's far better than that.

So he carried on with his career, licit and illicit as they may be, and let Roci believe Kikoku was just a novelty item at best, sitting pretty atop his dresser, curse and all, unused and untouched besides the weekly practice to keep it supposedly in check. He let him worry over his former-not-so-former charge on a different matter entirely because unlike Law, Roci enjoyed his life in Dressrosa and Law would do literally anything to keep that smile on his face — even if it meant lying to him (because when Rosinante suggested that Law get a new hobby, he's pretty sure he didn't mean to the extent of which Law had chosen, but what can you do.)

His first venture into the land of the trees was one of necessity, of survival and escape. He was a wanderer by direct correlation with Rosinante, forced to endure travels of rejection after rejection; a wanderer by perilous choice. After awhile, after his pain was a little more subdued, Rosinante became somewhat bearable and, after some time later, they wandered about more aimlessly, through the trees, breathtaking world of wonder.

And when Roci had enough of the wandering lifestyle he had tried out, Law was more than willing to follow him back to the governed world he was so reluctant to re-enter, no longer alone in the world without someone to stand by his side. And when the prospect of Dressrosa was laid before his companion, he gave Law the call to his choice, whether Roci went or stayed.

Of course Law told him to go, if the mere idea made Rosinante so excited, how happy would he be to be there, alongside his brother he clearly loved so dearly? And of course Law went with him, he himself happiest beside Roci, willing to go to ends of the earth for him, with him.

It was two harmonious years before then that he last thought of the trees; if Roci had wanted, then yes, absolutely he would return, no questions asked, but Law never gave much thought to it — didn't give much thought about signing himself into the Family business either, returning to the land he had discarded for a fresh start, a new life with his ever cherished companion.

So it went without saying that an obscene moniker whispered in passing amongst the timberland was a rather unforeseeable prospect that he'd rather hide from his beloved companion, away from the life they've made for themselves.

(Law would never admit that he was rather fond of the handle, because in doing so he would be admitting his enjoyment of said business which, in hindsight, he never should have partook in the first place.)


End file.
